


to decorate this silence

by TolkienGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, F/M, Gen, Unrequited Love, a little insight into Molly's state of mind pre-phonecall, at least she THINKS it is, title from "Winter Love" by Linda Gregg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 17:06:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17227943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Maybe it isn't strange at all.





	to decorate this silence

 

_I would like to decorate this silence,_

_but my house grows only cleaner_

_and more plain. The glass chimes I hung_

_over the register ring a little_

_when the heat goes on._

_I waited too long to drink my tea._

_It was not hot. It was only warm._

 - Winter Love

The cup is from your mother, and it's not a proper teacup. Too thick and heavy, stained all around the rim. Strange, that she bought it for you, when she was so particular about tea service and little fingers lifted.

Or maybe it isn't strange at all. She'd never trust you with the fine china, so why wouldn't she give you this clumsy lump to drink from?

 _Bollocks_ _._  This is the sort of mood you're in today. Psychoanalyzing a cup, deducing it, really—oh, wouldn't  _he_ be proud!

You haven't heard from him or about him in weeks. Not since a hole the size of South London was blasted through Baker Street. 

John and Sherlock fell on the canopy of Speedy's, only some bruised ribs and signed hair between them.

He might have called.

 _Keep on_ , Mary used to say.  _Keep on, Mol_.

But Mary's dead, leaving nothing but a pair of wide blue eyes to little Rosie.

You reach for a lemon, the best old Mr. Simon had to offer, and then the phone rings.

 

The first time you meet Sherlock, you are twenty-nine years old.

 

It took you till twenty-five, actually—took you till the other side of uni to have a real boyfriend. You know your taste in jumpers doesn't do you any favors. You know your hands still smell like formaldehyde, most days. 

_Not the kind of hands a bloke wants on him, you know, Molly?_

 

You're on the wrong side of thirty-five now and you have lemon juice on your hands when you finally say,  _I love you._  You have never been pretty enough, and being clever enough won't push words out of a mouth pinched closed.

You know that too.

 

This is the life you have built: half-a-dozen friends and counting, counting down.

Half-a-dozen heartbreaks. 

 

_Will you be godmother?_

_Of course._

(You're never sure if you believe in God. But you believe in  _them_.)

 

How do you love half-a-dozen people that much?

 

 _Take that, Mum_.  _Take stock of what you said I'd never have_.

 

_Hello, Sherlock._

_I'm not having a very good day._

 

Dial tones and disinfectant, half a pint of ice cream in the freezer, a laugh that cracks like something thawing, love and friendship, love and dead bodies, love and bodies that only look like they are dead.

 

_Molly, I need—_


End file.
